Waking the Wolf
by Phthalo
Summary: Killing the Archdemon might have ended the Blight, but it started something else entirely for the Warden who did it. No victory is without consequences. (The end of Origins, through Awakening and beyond. Title may change because, well, I am terribad at titles.)
1. Alive

**Alive**

She doesn't know if she is killing or dying. All around them the world has gone still, the blade she clutches the only link to the reality that must still exist outside the searing white light that's melted away all sound, all sight, all meaning.

She tightens her grip on the hilt in her hands as if she would obliterate the boundary between woman and blade, and pushes all her body's strength against the tremors of the creature underneath her.

It would throw her off if it could. It would crush her in its jaws. It would take her body for its own, and that, in the end, would be what kills it. Is that what is happening now? Both of them in the throes of death, their souls intertwining in that last, fatal embrace.

She isn't certain. The knowledge of her own impending survival tugs away at the fraying edges of her mind—something, she did something, or somebody did—but it too succumbs to the awful, beautiful white. There is so much of it, a blazing, brilliant whiteness all around, working its way inside her skin. Even the creature's death spasms have lost their fury. It gives one last shudder and her body at last opens up to the burning light.

"It is not to be, little wolf-child," says the dragon.

She would know its voice from beyond the Veil, for it has sung to her in her dreams. She never understood it before, if it even spoke with actual words, but that one short sentence has the feel of a familiar lullaby. "I— I am sorry," she answers without knowing why.

They are standing amid ruins, two rows of toppled marble columns once carved with intricate swirls of flowers and leaves. The dragon is perched on an enormous, chipped dais, watching her with bright, golden eyes. Black shadows seep out of its body, dissipating into curls of smoke the moment they touch the gleaming white marble of the dais, and leaving behind scales so bright and perfect, they look to be made out of sunlight dancing on water. Just at the edge of her vision, everything blurs and curves.

She looks down at her hands, half-expecting to find herself still holding that blade, but they are empty and clean. She is still wearing her armor, but it feels lighter somehow, almost weightless. When she moves, the leather does not creak. The Beyond, then.

Her memories flood back in an instant and she knows: this is the Archdemon, a tainted Old God, she is the Grey Warden who has killed it, and Morrigan's ritual should have worked, shouldn't it have?

"That it did," says the Archdemon with its musical voice. "We have little time."

She doesn't stop to wonder that it knows her thoughts. Along with her memories, the ever-present tension and wariness of the past months have returned. She can even feel the knots in her shoulders, the aches in her muscles, even though she knows her real body is probably bleeding profusely somewhere at the top of Fort Drakon. "Time for what, creature?"

"This is your path, wolf-child. Mine also. I would give you something in thanks for my freedom."

"No gift is without price from those like you."

The dragon's shoulders shake, sending ripples into its wings. Another shadow trickles off and wisps into nothing as it makes contact with the dais. She realizes the dragon is laughing. "Clever wolf-child. That is so, thus you must decide whether you want what I offer."

She knows she should be surprised, but all she feels is relief. If the dragon is offering her something then Morrigan succeeded. The ritual worked! All she wants is to bask in the feeling, have it last forever. "Why do you call me that?" she asks, stalling for time they do not have.

"Do you truly not know?"

But she does know, has known it from the moment Keeper Marethari cast her out, though she has never admitted it to herself until now. When she returns, she will be able to walk freely among both the People and the humans, kin to one, honored by the other, a hero to both. She has defeated the Blight, so she will make them accept her as one of their own, and then—

"Just so," says the dragon. "The Wolf has claimed you, and so must walk the Wolf's path. That is the reason you allowed the witch to cast her magic."

"No! I did it to—"

"Protect your lover?" Another ripple runs from the dragon's shoulders to the tips of its wings, sending more wisps of black shadow to disintegrate against the marble floor. The atmosphere bends and shimmers all around the creature, now nearly free of the putrid blackness. "Love, you will find, is but a poor feast when you have nothing, and you, little wolf-child, have nothing but my death to cling to. Take it. Make it yours."

"If we are here, I have already done this." She bares her teeth in a mirthless smile. "This is your gift?"

"No. This is the truth, and your fate. My gift is something to aid you in the path you have chosen."

Something in the dragon's tone feels unbearably familiar, and again she wonders whether it did not already tell her all this, sang it to her in one of the many feverish nightmares she had on the road. She can almost feel the heat of Alistair's body next to hers, his warm, rough hand stroking her forehead as her mind struggles to escape the reality of dreams. "What do you have to give?"

"My memories, such as they are. My knowledge, also. You will never recall everything perfectly; it will never be anything more than fragments lurking at the edge of your understanding, but they will be enough. When the time comes, they might aid you."

She thinks she can discern an undercurrent of bitterness in the dragon's words, even though its voice has remained soft. She doubts she will get the complete truth, but she must ask her question. "What do you mean? What time?"

The dragon flicks its wings back with an audible snap and lowers its head until its great, gleaming maw is level with her. "Fate and change are two edges of the same blade, wolf-child. Two vials of the same poison, if you will. Only when the moment comes will you know how to use it, or even what it is you behold."

"And the catch?"

"Your mind may not be able to contain what I offer; it may simply... unravel. But you already guessed this."

She nods slowly. She had known as much from the moment she first beheld the Old God shedding its taint, much as she had known that it would only tell her partial truths and let her intuit the rest. She looks at the creature before her. The last of the blackness is gone and it stands there, gleaming with its terrible beauty, like sculpted sunlight. It watches her watch it, waiting.

The thought is clear, a perfect understanding between woman and dragon, belonging to both, originating with neither: all that Morrigan bargained for was the Old God's soul, and that is _all_ she will get. She will lie to Morrigan a second time. "Very well," she says evenly. "I accept."

"We are each other's fate, it seems." Its voice is a shimmer that envelops her. "Come, wolf-child."

The Old God is nothing but a coruscating dragon-shape on the gleaming marble dais, its scintillating form pulling her forward. Or maybe she is running toward it, as she did atop Fort Drakon, bracing for the inevitable impact.

There is no time to decide what the truth is. Their bodies collide in a soundless, blinding flash, the force of which sends the ruined columns flying like sticks. She can no longer tell where the woman ends and the dragon begins. Undefinable visions flicker into her consciousness, ripping her apart from inside her very bones. Words without meaning in a language she does not understand bloom like burning flowers inside her mind. Every syllable is a brand, every image sears a bit more of her away until she is pure burning light. She is on fire and all she wants is to be consumed and consume. All she wants is to burn, burn. She is weightless. She disintegrates like black smoke until all that's left is a white-hot core. The pain in her bones is the only sign she yet lives...

"She yet lives! You're alive! It worked, thank the Maker!"

Alistair's voice is ragged. He is cradling her head with one hand, the other supporting her battered body. Everything hurts, even her the opening of her eyelids. His eyes are red with unshed tears and there is a dark red smudge across his left cheek. She can smell smoke, hear the clang and clash of swords, the shouting of men, and all she can taste is the metallic tang of blood.

It is on the tip of her tongue to rasp at him that the Maker had nothing to do with it unless the Maker's name is Morrigan, but his expression is so blissful, so full of love, that everything outside of it becomes inconsequential. There will be time later for that and more, plenty of time to confront the aftermath of what they've done. They have bought themselves the luxury to repent or rejoice at leisure.

For now, the only truth in the world is this moment: their glances locked, his arms around her, the distinctions between human and elf, monarch and Warden, inconsequential. Smiling against the pain, she pushes herself as close to him as she can, as if the proximity to one another could stop the future from descending.


	2. Body

**Chapter 2: Body**

It takes her two weeks to recover. Strangely enough she feels no ill effects from her encounter with the Old God in the Beyond, which worries her more than if she were to have gone stark raving mad the moment she came to after the battle. She has the constant sense of having forgotten something important, but no matter what tricks she tries, she remembers nothing more ominous than having accepted a questionable gift from a questionable source.

Once, she wakes up in a cold panic just before dawn, the image of a great, luminous dragon branded behind her eyelids, but as soon as she tries to picture it more fully it slips away so quickly that she's not ever certain that it was a dragon she had been dreaming about. Beside her Alistair is already awake, watching her with concern. She must have been thrashing about a while, then.

"Bad dreams, love?"

She nods slowly, unsure why she doesn't just tell him what happened. Instead, the lies come swiftly: "I can't wait until I gain more control over these dreams. The darkspawn hive mind is so damn dull: tunnel, taint, kill, repeat. It would be so much more interesting if they broke into song and dance once in a while."

"I'd pay to see that." He reaches out to trace the intricate swirls of her Vallaslin. "It shouldn't be much longer. The Blight is over."

"And you know how I know that? I'm sleeping in silken sheets, in an aravel-sized bed with a gilded chamberpot underneath it."

He laughs lightly and pulls her closer. "Your ass is too glorious for gilt."

"You better believe it" she whispers against his neck, eager to derail the conversation. They've been carrying on as before, but she knows it's only a matter of time before they'll have to show some decorum. Until then, she's going to let his touch set her on fire as if they had no obligations to anyone other than themselves. If he'd ask her to lick a lamppost in the marketplace at midday, she would do it.

"I'll have them get you a golden one tomorrow," he says as his hands begin roaming her body.

She abandons herself in a long, searching kiss by way of a reply. His body is a constant revelation no matter how many times they touch. She loves his scent, a tangy, smoky musk, so unlike anything she encountered before she left the forest. She loves the way this alien, human smell clings to her the morning after. She loves the mismatched calluses on his palms, knowing through touch alone whether it is his sword or shield hand that ghosts across her skin. She loves his long lean legs, his massive shoulders, perfectly sculpted like a statue's, the rhythmic rippling of his back as he thrusts inside her, and she loves the wild hammering of the pulse at his neck when he peaks.

Above all, she loves how he loses himself in her in these moments, as if the whole world was nothing more than their bodies interlocked.


	3. Crown

**Crown**

Talk of potential brides happens even before the coronation. There are hesitant mentions of various eligible ladies, most of them young relatives of minor banns, though two Arl daughters are thrown into the mix for good measure; there is even one round of whispers that vouches for Bann Alfstanna's interest in the young King.

"An unfounded lie," says Zevran in response to her quirked eyebrow. He has been amusing himself with Denerim gossip, and he always saves the best bits for her. "The good lady does not want King Alistair, or the throne."

"I didn't think she did. Still." She idly opens and closes the heavy, embossed leather cover of one of the many Fereldan history books she's asked Eamon to procure for her. She's been meticulously reading each one and taking notes, and she often has the impression she's not so much interested in learning as searching for something specific. "She's a good ten years older than him, but she would not be without merit as a potential queen."

Zevran quirks an eyebrow of his own, but mercifully says nothing.

"Do you suppose she could be convinced?"

Zevran shrugs and smiles, and she is again thankful for his silence on the matter. She has no real interest in discussing the possibility of her lover's future marriage, unless it involves Ferelden's apparent inability to provide its new ruler with a suitable consort. Which has happened before, she reminds herself.

"The real offers won't happen until after the coronation, you know."

"No doubt." She almost adds that they're just testing the waters, seeing how close their yet-to-be-crowned king and his elven mistress really are, but something stops her from articulating that thought. She pushes the book aside, and moves out onto the small balcony overlooking a round stone courtyard still bearing scorch marks from the battle.

Other than a ruined wing and a whole lot of rubble, Arl Eamon's estate fared a lot better than expected. She's been given a spacious chamber, clean and full of thickly embroidered wall hangings that make her think of oddly colored scabs. She can recognize most of the depicted subjects by now, all of them scenes from the life of Calenhad, but she doubts they would be recognizable to the man himself. Even her mabari seems uncomfortable here, and spends most of his time by the kitchens, making friends for scraps.

For her part, she finds Eamon's solicitude unnerving, but she plays it off as if it the most natural thing in the world for Ferelden's most respected Arl to treat a Dalish elf with courtesy and deference. She did just save his blighted family, his blighted village, his blighted life and the whole blighted country besides, didn't she, never you mind that she did at least one of those things for not entirely altruistic reasons. She closes her eyes against the thought, and she tries, unsuccessfully, to pretend this is forest sunlight on her face.

"If I may say so," says Zevran when she falls silent, "you seem to have adjusted rather fast to all this politicking."

"I'm a quick study," she tosses over her shoulder. "Most Dalish would still be gawping at all the garbage and hunting toddlers for their evening meals."

Zevran chuckles and comes to stand beside her on the sunlit balcony. A servant is drawing water from the courtyard well, seemingly oblivious to the rubble piled all around. Somewhere in the distance, she can hear children shouting at their play of Denerim's newest favorite game, Warden and Archdemon. She briefly wonders how much of Goldanna's family survived the attack. Zevran's voice sounds faraway, like something heard in a dream. He is saying, "Are you sure I can't convince you to come see Antiva with me? You might find yourself enjoying it."

"You didn't say you're going back." She's glad to deflect. She's done a lot of that lately, and it's beginning to feel fun leaving things unsaid and letting innuendo and implication take root.

"It's not certain, but I do have unfinished business there. Maybe I deal with it sooner than later, maybe I just end up in Rivain for the Midsummer Feasts. Remind me sometime to tell you about a saucy Rivaini lady I used to know."

"Let me guess: it involves a lot of naked flesh."

"Also danger, writhing and piquant positioning."

"I'd lose all respect for you if it didn't."

Zevran throws his head back and laughs, a loud, throaty sound that startles the handful of sparrows picking at the courtyard's debris into sudden, disjointed flight. "You, my beautiful Warden, have become a cynic."

"Somebody has to be," she says simply.

His mirth suddenly ceases and he looks at her, an undefinable expression in his eyes. "It suits you."

It is perhaps this unexpected glimpse of herself in an assassin's glance that brings on the sudden realization she welcomes the idea of having to maneuver around Arl Eamon and his opinions. Whatever girl they'll dig up for Alistair will have to be Eamon-approved, and it is a battle she knows she will enjoy.

Smiling, she says, "Thank you, Zevran. You are a good friend."

A friend whose services she is tempted to retain, she realizes on coronation day as she lays eyes on Eamon. They are cordial to each other, and even carry on an odd exchange about Eamon's family. Why he would ask her for insight into his son is puzzling, and she notes the detail for its strangeness. For all his ability, Eamon seems somehow unaware, unable to grasp the finer turns of emotion, and it dawns on her she doesn't really find it all that surprising that Isolde hungered so for Teagan's aid. Nonetheless, his courtesy to her seems to set the tone for how the gathered human nobles address her. Their politeness is not forced, exactly; it simply appears to suffer from a lack of... flow?

"Child, how good to see you." A familiar voice startles her. "Though you are hardly that anymore."

"Ashalle!" She manages to keep the surprise out of her tone as she says, "I am so glad you are here. _Aneth ara_, Ashalle."

She can barely focus on Ashalle's words, however, as the older woman talks about the clan's journey across the water, Marethari's regards, how proud they all are of her. Her head is suddenly throbbing, and she can barely hear her own replies. She hopes she's saying the right things, but nothing in Ashalle's expression indicates otherwise.

"I don't know if I can come back with you right now," she hears herself say after a while. "There is so much to do here. The Wardens need me," she tacks on lamely, an errant afterthought.

"Of course."

"But look," she says as she holds out a small silver amulet on a delicate chain. For a disconcerting moment she feels like she is five again, a small girl with grass stains on her elbows and knobby knees, showing Ashalle one of the many dubious treasures she found while she and Tamlen were playing hide-and-seek under the aravels. It's not until this moment, polished silver circle glinting like a mirror in her palm, that she knows for certain she never meant to hold on to anything received in Andraste's cold mountain temple.

"What is this?"

"A spirit gave it to me in exchange for opening my wounds. It's a long story. Anyway, I have a favor to ask."

"Anything, _da'len_."

"Before you go back, take this to the forest," she says as she closes Ashalle's hands around the amulet. "The greenest, mossiest place you can find and bury it there. Plant a tree with it. Please."

Ashalle nods slowly and looks like she's on the verge of asking a question, but all she says is, "Of course."

She gives Ashalle a quick hug, and moves away, eager to catch up with her companions. They now seem more real to her than any life she may have had before the Blight started. Though all but Morrigan—and she refuses to dwell on Morrigan—remained in Denerim for the coronation, they all drifted apart in the short month leading up to the event, each one of them glad for the opportunity to simply exhale. When she finally reaches Zevran, he speaks again of returning to Antiva and she knows, without a doubt, he's merely waiting for her to give the word.

She is so very close to asking him to stay when her eye catches the insistent glint of sunlight off one of the many polished fixtures in the throne room. The sensation of falling is so intense, she has to close her eyes and brace herself for an impact that never comes. After a moment, her only reply to Zevran's curious stare is, "There is nothing wrong with leaving... if you return."

He remains gracious, and she moves on to the next person, but the danger, for the time being anyway, has passed. Whatever struggle for the crown of Ferelden will ensue, as she knows it will, it will not start with any more blood than has already been spilled to get Alistair the throne. As she steps out in the bright sunlight to meet the crowd's delirious roar, she imagines telling him just what an exquisite lie she told when she said she'd be content to be his mistress.


	4. Duty

**Duty**

Telling Alistair the truth about everything turns into a persistent, masochistic fantasy in the months following the coronation. The real offers do indeed come, but none seem dangerous. No, the only real threats are Arl Eamon's apparent eagerness to get the Theirin line breeding again, and Alistair's own sense of duty. One has been rubbing elbows with endless Arls and Banns, while the other has stuck his nose in endless books about the histories of said Arls and Banns. They both believe they are doing the right thing.

For her part, she's found grim satisfaction in presenting the Eluvian as a wild card in the discussion about her survival with the Orlesian Wardens. They've left her alone for now, while the report reaches Weisshaupt and the First Warden, but her days in Denerim are rapidly coming to an end. They've relinquished their grip on Alistair, of course, but they still need her. Not an order, exactly; not a request, either. It is a golden opportunity, regardless of its ambiguous wording, and she will not let it escape.

She leans against the wall as Alistair paces away his frustration with the latest offer. He has kept her appraised of every detail, even insisted she be in on all talks with Eamon, a request she thought wiser to refuse. If she is to sway a good man from his course, she cannot seem eager to do so. Not that she'll have much time to do this, with her impending departure to Amaranthine, but at least no one, Alistair included, will be able accuse her of stopping the king from choosing a wife.

"She's fifteen," he says for the third time since they reached her chambers. They've both moved into the palace, and she has rooms across the hall from Alistair's. The new royal apartments, technically, since he refused to use Cailan's and Anora's old chambers. Her new quarters are twice the size of what she had at Eamon's estate, colder and draftier and with far fewer scabrous tapestries. She has become oddly fond of them, so she refuses to think about what will happen in the event of a royal marriage. She focuses instead on Alistair and his pacing.

"Fifteen! Eamon wants me to marry a fifteen year-old."

"To be fair, love, he only suggested an engagement. The marriage can wait until until she's older." She doesn't add that the longer the wait, the less chance for an heir. She just watches him clench and unclench his hands and conquers the urge to mirror his gesture. "It would be a good alliance. The Arl of South Reach is one of the last survivors of the war against Orlais who has not disgraced himself. He commands great respect in the Bannorn, and he—"

Alistair's expression darkens. "I know all that. Maker, don't tell me you agree with Eamon."

"I see his point," she replies cautiously. "There is a great deal to be gained from marrying Habren Bryland."

"She's an empty-headed, spoiled brat."

"She's young yet."

In an instant he has advanced upon her. His arms are still at his sides, but if the look on his face is any indication, it's taking all his self control not to pin her against the wall. "Why are you so eager to send me to another woman's bed?"

"Alistair—"

"Answer me."

She feels the specter of Morrigan rise up between them as if it were a tangible thing. He hasn't spoken of that night at Redcliffe, but she knows he has thought of it. He didn't meet her glance the entire time they marched on Denerim, and not for the first time she wonders what precisely transpired with Morrigan to make him close off like that. There's an added, hidden edge to his resistance, now that she's asking him to consider an extended repeat performance. One he agreed to, she reminds herself, but one he obviously wants to put off. Maybe she's closer to winning this battle than she thought, though the war has yet to be decided.

She wants to tell him just how much she hates the thought of his marrying Habren, or anyone else, how much she detests this charade, but all she does is bite the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood. "You know this has nothing to do with what I want," she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"At least we agree on that."

"Consider it, that's all I'm saying."

"Do you meant it, Rhys?"

Hearing him say her name sends a jolt down her spine. The lies wither on her tongue, unspoken. She closes her eyes and flattens herself against the cold stone wall as if it could swallow her. "I—"

"That's what I thought." He moves away from her, and again his hands clench and unclench. "Very well, my love. I will think on this."

"Thank you," she says as the door closes behind him. There is a new side to Alistair that's been slowly revealing itself as court life chips away at him, and she's not entirely certain how she would have responded to him had he been like this when they first met. She's always sensed it there, an unyielding resolve just beneath that disarming surface, like a dark, ominous thing sleeping at the bottom of a placid lake. And now she was baiting it out. Yes, it was her doing, she started this fire; she'll go ahead and play with it, and burn with it, if that's the way it goes.

Yet in this moment, alone with nothing more comforting than her determination to triumph or perish by the choices she's made, all she wants to do is slide to the cold stone floor and lie there. The only thing holding her up is hope.

Back flush to the wall, she hopes she's played a good enough game that he will not repeat his Landsmeet performance and turn duty into a dagger with which to carve out both of their hearts. She hopes he's strong enough to just take. She hopes love is finally enough.


	5. Elvhen

**Elvhen**

"But you're a Dalish." The man's glance darts to her Vallaslin as he stares at her with open-mouthed incomprehension. She might as well have asked him to strip to his smalls and recite the Dissonant verses backwards, which she just might do the next time they decide to wait out the cold Fereldan rain in a backwater village inn.

"Actually, I'm a dragon," she says matter of factly. "You need to get your eyes checked. So, about those drinks."

The innkeeper's eyes come to rest on Velanna. "She a dragon too?"

"No, she's Dalish. Like I said: have a healer look at your eyes. Now, have you or have you not ale?" She can feel Velanna bristling behind her, probably ready to spit fireballs now that Anders is audibly snickering.

"Sodding, nug-humping fool, don't you know who this is?" Oghren slams his fist on the counter, causing the few mugs on it to rattle dangerously. The small common room falls silent at the dwarf's outburst, but Oghren continues unabated. "Sodding Hero of sodding Ferelden, that's who, and Commander of the sodding Grey besides, so you better have drinks, you son of a shaved motherless nug, and they better be strong."

"What my friend here means is that he'd like a mug by the fire sooner than later. I apologize for his enthusiasm. Rain is still an unpleasant novelty for him." She places a hand on the dwarf's shoulder, gently pulling him back. "Oghren, enough. Grey Wardens do not bully publicans."

"Oh— Of, of course." The innkeeper has become a flurry of motion in spite of his considerable girth. He gives her a quick, awkward bow as he hurries to fill mugs and clear them a place by the fire. "Right this way, ser. Beg pardon, ser. I had no notion the new Arlessa were an elf. We get so little activity out this way, what with the Blight and all. Thank the Maker that's over! It is over, isn't it, ser?"

"The Archdemon is dead," she replies quietly. "Thank you for the drinks. No need to trouble yourself further, we'll find our own seats."

The man bustles around them a little longer, clearly trying to make up for his earlier lapse. She figures there's no harm in letting him get it out of his system, so she leans back in her chair and watches her companions settle themselves.

Oghren has already dug into his mug, and judging by his expression, the brew is worse than bad. Anders has yet to find a seat. He appears to be checking his robes for signs the rain might have gotten through his latest attempt at making a force magic umbrella, but he's really waiting to gauge Velanna's mood before he decides how much distance to put between himself and the Dalish mage.

The last time they encountered a village tavern, she couldn't contain her invectives about the wretchedness of _shems_ everywhere. Predictably, she looks ready to murder the first person who addresses her. She has sat down, but only just on the edge of her seat, and her scowl is clearly directed in the Warden-Commander's direction.

"Why do you let them talk to you that way?" Velanna finally hisses after the innkeeper has returned to the counter.

"Should I hand them a script, Velanna? Maybe pass an Amaranthine-wide edict that they address every elf they encounter as 'Your Most Frolicsome Presence' and have them flogged if they don't. Do you think that would make things better?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps.

"I am not the one being ridiculous. The man didn't know who I was. No harm in that."

"I would like to see that kind of edict," says Anders, who has wisely chosen the seat furthest away from Velanna. "Can you maybe throw in something about the proper way to address mages? I'm rather fond of Grand Poobah of Lightning Bolts, but I'm willing to work with variations."

"Sure thing. And since I'm feeling generous I'll honor our friends with titles of their own. How about Overlord of Belches, Perky Mistress of Doom and Bann Broody McGlower?"

Anders chuckles into his drink. "Want to bet they're sorry they got scouting duties this time?"

"I got one better," laughs Oghren. "Five sovereigns say they're scouting each other, if you know what I mean."

"In this weather?" She smirks out of the corner of her mouth, ready to leave Velanna's grievances behind. "Doubtful."

"How can you make light of it?" Except Velanna isn't willing to let it go this time. "How can you sit there and _joke_?"

"Would you rather I fell on my daggers in grief?" The words are out of her mouth before she even realizes what she's said. None of them know it, of course, but she's just raised the stakes by involuntarily reminding herself of Morrigan's old jabs at Alistair. Lothering seems like a lifetime ago, like it happened to someone else. Whatever good humor she had been feeling is gone. She's now ready to bare tooth and claw. Please, Velanna, go there.

And Velanna does just that, as if she's heard her unspoken plea. "You're a Keeper's daughter and you carry on as if you're a _shem_-loving flat-ear."

"I am an outcast. As are you. There is no going back."

Velanna's knuckles are white around her otherwise untouched mug. "You're a fraud, Mahariel. You're the _shemlen_ king's whore while his people treat yours like beasts."

The common room has gone quiet again. The handful of locals have stopped pretending they're drinking their awful ales and are frankly staring in their direction, while the innkeeper has stopped polishing his tin mugs and seems to be appraising the likelihood of a brawl, or whatever it is he thinks Dalish do in these situations. Even Oghren looks like he'd rather be back outside in the rain.

It really was only a matter of time before Velanna would say something like this, and it may be a good thing she's chosen to do it here. There's something poetic about hashing out a Dalish argument in a ratty human tavern.

She doesn't like or dislike Velanna, but she does pity her. She often wants to shake her until the rage and hatred fall off like leaves off a dying tree, but even if she had the ability to do this very impossible thing, she doubts she would use it. She settles for politeness instead, a near perfect mimicry of Nathaniel's manners that stops just short of mockery. What makes it odd is that no one seems to notice the Commander's contempt for her fellow elf.

"Velanna," she says calmly, "let's, for the moment, leave aside the fact that you have neither good sense nor a shred of courtesy. What few concessions I have brought the People, have been rightly earned boons. If I were indeed to be remunerated for my exertions with my lover, who is indeed _human_ and a king, be assured I would ask for something more gratifying than trudging about the backwater muck of Amaranthine in search of darkspawn lairs and foul raider hideouts. For instance, I might demand a golden chamberpot and a fancy title, or all the cheese I can eat."

"I didn't mean—"

"You did, and you can't be so stupid as to suggest the People would be happy to gain anything through my supposed prostitution."

Fury and contriteness twist Velanna's features. "What I meant is, you seem to have forgotten what it means to be Dalish."

"The same can be said of you," she replies, well aware she should just let the matter drop and come up with a some kind of punishment for a recruit ignoring the chain of command. Instead she continues, her voice low and steady. "Do you really believe a few sloppy killings are going to rain golden glory on the Elvhenan and raise Arlathan? Those wounds are too deep to be healed or avenged by petty, clandestine action. Rage is fast and cheap. Don't waste your resources on it."

"Our people have lost everything!"

"Have they? I wonder. Maybe we should stop yearning for the long gone past and look to the future."

"So you'd have them forget?" Velanna's eyes glint dangerously. "It's up to us to remember."

"Remember, yes. Wreak aimless vengeance on harmless bystanders, no. There's a reason you're here now. Don't ever forget it." She reaches her hand across the table to touch Velanna's arm. "_Ir abelas, lethallan_. Whatever came before, we walk with the Wolf now."

To her surprise, Velanna doesn't argue. As a Keeper's first she should be at least a little outraged a Dalish is claiming kinship with Fen'Harel, but all she does is give her a long, searching glance before retracting her hand. At length she says, "I am sorry for my words, Mahariel. I accept whatever whatever punishment you see fit."

"Yes, you will. But first, the mission."

She doesn't doubt the sincerity of Velanna's apology, but something in the way Velanna speaks the name of her line makes her wary. The elven mage has never addressed her by anything other than her Warden title and tonight's switch to a name, that name of all things, gives her pause. Another thing to deal with later. For now, she has a roomful of frightened and curious villagers to becalm.

"Please, ser," the innkeeper says when she reaches the counter. "We don't want trouble."

"Sorry for the excitement." She flashes him her most disarming grin, the one that always made Marethari relent, and drops three shiny sovereigns on the counter. "Seems the weather's got my people on edge. A round of your best for everyone here, and keep the rest as a tab for those who missed out on the fun."

It's obvious the innkeeper struggles with telling them to get lost, but the lure of gold wins out. The coins quickly disappear, and soon the entire room is buzzing with the excitement at the new Arlessa of Amaranthine's generosity. There are even a few newly filled mugs raised in her name as she goes back to her seat.

Velanna still glowers, though she does it without meeting Mahariel's glance. They have solved nothing, only reached a temporary ceasefire.

She knows Velanna will never be able to see past Alistair's humanity, that this fact alone makes her, Rhys Mahariel, last of her line, daughter of a Keeper, slayer of Urthemiel, somehow less of a person. It is the same reasoning that keeps her from sharing Ferelden's throne with Alistair in spite of everything she has done, and it takes all her willpower to just swallow the tepid ale, to smile and nod without screaming, without howling in abject and absolute pain.


End file.
